Dark Descent
by Fionnathehuman23
Summary: When Fionna Mertins walks in on something horrifying yet amazing she gets sucked into the crazy world of demon-hunters, demons, and all mythical creatures she finds love and daring adventure. do you want to enter the crazy world of the demon-hunters?
1. Chapter 1 Panemonuim

**Hey this is my first FanFiction so ya…. Simon is just a character I made up not Ice king. R&R!**

Dark Decent

Chapter 1

Pandemonium

**"You've got to be kidding me," the bouncer said, folding his **arms across his massive chest. He stared down at the boy in a red zip-up jacket and shook his shaved head. "You can't bring that thing in here".

The fifty or so teenagers in the line outside of the Pandemonium Club leaned forward to eaves drop. It was a long wait to get into the all-ages club, especially on a Sunday, and not much generally happened in the line. The bouncers were fierce and would come down instantly on anyone who looked like they would start trouble. Fifteen year old Fionna Mertins, standing in line with her best friend, Simon, leaned forward along with every one else, hoping for some excitement

"Aw, come on." The kid hoisted the thing up over his head. It looked like a wooden beam, pointed at the end. "It's part of my costume."

The bouncer raised an eye brow "which is what exactly?"

The boy grinned. He was normal-enough-looking, Fionna thought, for the Pandemonium. He had electric blue dyed hair that looked like he had an octopus on his head, but no elaborate tattoos or piercings going through his face. "I'm a vampire hunter." He pushed down on the wooden board and it bend as if it was a blade of grass blowing in the wind. "Its foam. See?"

The boy's wide eyes were way too bright of a green, Fionna though it was quite attractive. The bouncer shrugged "go on."

The boy slide past him, quick as an eel. Fionna thought the beast word to describe him was _**insouciant.**_

__"You thought he was cute," said Simon, sounding resigned. "Didn't you?"

Fionna dug her elbow into his ribs, and didn't answer.

Inside the club was a full of dry-ice smoke. The multi-colored lights played in the dance floor turning everyone there a rainbow of colors.

The boys green eyes scanned the dance floor looking for someone to catch his eye. The floor was filled with slender limbs with scraps of silk and leather appeared and disappeared. Girls tossed their long hair, boys swung their leather clad hips, and bare skin glittered with sweat. Vitality_** poured**_ off them, waves of energy that filled him with drunken dizziness. His lip curled. They didn't know how lucky they were. They didn't know what it was like to eke out of life in a dead world, where the sun hung limp in the sky like a burned cinder. Their lives burned as lightly as candle flames-and were easy to snuff out.

His hands tightened on the blade he carried, and he had begun to step out onto the dance floor when a girl begun walking toward him. She was beautiful, for a human, long hair nearly the precise color of black ink, and green eyes. She was in a floor length gown, the kind that humans used to wear when the world was younger. Lace sleeves belled out on her slim arms. Around her neck was a thick silver chain, on which hung a dark red jewel around the size of a baby's' fist. He had only had to narrow his eyes to realize it was real and precious. His mouth started to water as she neared him. Vital energy pulsed from her like an open wound. She smiled, passing him, beckoning him with her eyes. He turned to follow her, tasting the phantom sizzle of death on his lips.

It was easy. He could already feel the power of her evaporating life coursing through his veins like fire. Humans were so stupid. They had something so precious and they barely safe guarded it at all. They threw their lives for money, for packets of powder, for a kind mans smile. The girl was a pale ghost retreating through the colored smoke. She reached the wall and turned, bunching her skirt up in her hands, lifting it as she grinned at him. Under her skirt she was wearing thigh high boots.

He sauntered up to her, his skin prickling with nearness. Up close she wasn't so perfect: he could see the mascara smudged under her eyes, the sweat sticking to her hair and neck. He could _**smell **_her mortality the sweet rot of corruption. 'Got you' he thought.

A cool smile curled her lips. She moved to the side, and could see that she was leaning on a closed door. NO ADMITTANCE – STORAGE scrawled across it in red paint. She reached behind her and slid quietly inside. He caught a glimpse of stacked boxes and wires. A storage room. He glanced behind him- no one was looking.

He slipped into the room unaware that he was being followed.

"So," Simon said, "pretty good music eh?"

Fionna didn't reply. They were dancing, or what passed of it- a lot of swaying back and forth with occasional lunges towards the floor as if someone dropped a contact lens. An Asian couple was making out passionately their colorful hair extensions tangling together like vines. A boy with a lip piercing and a teddy bear back pack was handing out tablets of herbal ecstasy, his parachute pants flapping in the breeze from the wind machine. Fionna wasn't paying much attention to the crowd her eyes were on the blue haired boy that went to the storage room.

"I for one," Simon went on "am enjoying myself immensely."

This seemed unlikely. Simon as always, stuck out like a sore thumb, in jeans and a t-shirt that had printed on it MADE IN BROOKLIN across the front of it. His freshly washed hair was a dark brown instead of a blue or pink, and had his glasses perched crookedly on his nose.

"Mmm-hmm." Fionna knew perfectly well that he came to the Pandemonium with her only because she liked it, the clothes, the music , the people made it feel like a dream, someone else's life, not her boring plain life. She was always too shy to talk to anyone but Simon.

The blue haired was making his way off of the dance floor looking lost. Fionna was wondering what would happen if she introduced herself. Maybe he would just stare at her. Maybe he would be grateful and pleased. Maybe-

The blue haired boy straitened suddenly like a hunting dog on point. Fionna followed his gaze to the girl in the white dress.

_ Oh well _Fionna thought trying not to be deflated like a party balloon. _I guess that's that. _The girl was gorgeous like a girl she would like to draw, tall, slim, and beautiful. Even at a distance she saw the red pendant around her throat.

" I feel," Simon went on, "That DJ bat is doing a spectacular job, don't you agree?"

Fionna rolled her eyes, Simon hated trance music. Her attention was on the girl in the white dress. Even through the darkness and the smoke she shone out like a white beacon. No wonder the blue haired boy was following her, as if under a spell too day-dreamed to realize that two dark shadows were on his heels

Fionna slowed down her dancing and stared.

"Mean while I have been cross dressing and have been sleeping with your mom" Simon added.

The girl had reached the wall, and was opening a door marked NO ADMITTANCE. She beckoned the blue haired boy after her, and they slipped through the door. It wasn't anything she hadn't seen before, couple sneaking out to make out in dark corners- but it was weird that they were being followed.

She stood on tiptoe to see over the multi colored heads. The two guys had stopped in front of the door and were conversing between themselves. One of them had pitch black hair even darker than the girls, and the other was blonde. The black-haired one reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sharp pointy knife. "Simon" Fionna shouted as she seized his arm.

"What?" Simon looked alarmed. "I am not really sleeping with your mom, you know. I was just trying to get you attention. Not that you mom isn't attractive, for her age.

"Did you see those guys?" she pointed almost hitting a ginger who was dancing nearby. "See them by the door?"

Simon squinted and said "Nope why?"

"There were two of them. They were following the blue haired guy-"

"The one you thought was cute?"

"Yes, but that's not the point, the black haired one pulled out a knife!"

"Are you sure?" Simon said squinting harder, and shaking his head. "I don't see any one."

"I am sure."

Suddenly he went all business like, he squared his shoulders. "I will get one of the security guards you stay here." And with that he strode away pushing through the crowd.

Fionna turned just in time to see the black haired boy slip behind the NO ADMITTANCE door and his blonde friend right behind him. She looked around and found Simon was barely making progress, so Fionna decided to follow the pair of boys.

"What's your name?"

She turned and smiled. What faint light there was in the storage room. Piles of wires, empty soda cans, and broken disco balls littered the floor.

"Marceline"

"That's a nice name." He walked toward her, stepping over them, just in case any of them were live. In the faint light she looked like and angel all in white. It would be _**his **_pleasure to make her fall. "I haven't seen you around here before."

"Are you asking me if I come here often?" she giggled and covered her mouth with her hand. There was some sort of bracelet around her wrist under her dress sleeve. As he neared he realized that it was a tattoo inked into her skin, a matrix of swirling lines.

He froze "you-"

He didn't finish. She moved lightning fast striking out at him with an open hand, a blow to the chest would have sent him gasping for air, if he had been a human being. He staggered back, and now there was something in her hand, a coiling whip that glinted gold as she brought it back down, curling around his ankles, jerking him off his feet. He hit the ground, writhing, the hated metal biting deep into his skin. She laughed, standing over him, and dizzily he thought that he should have _**known. **_No human girl would ever wear a dress like Marceline wore. It had covered her skin, _**all**_ of her skin.

Marceline yanked hard on the whip, securing it. Her smile glittered like a poisonous snake. "He is all yours boys" Marceline stated.

**What do you think should I continue?**


	2. Chapter 1 part2 Panemonuim

**So ya thanks fioleefan1000 and squirtle9783 for reviewing I would like more reviews so ya like it up and follow me and stuff ya and here it is.**

Dark Descent

Chapter 1 Pandemonium part2

Marceline yanked hard on the whip, securing it. Her smile glittered like poisonous water. "He is all yours boys"

A low laugh sounded behind him, grabbing him from behind, throwing him on a stone pillar. He could feel the damp, cold hard pillar behind him. His hands were grabbed and bound behind him with a piece of wire. As he struggled, someone walked out from behind the pillar into his view, he was blond, but had the same facial structure. "So" the boy said "are there any more of you here" he spat the word 'you'.

The blue haired kid could feel blood welling up because of the too tightly tied wire, making his wrists slippery. "Any other what" he asked with a confident smirk.

"Come on now." the Blond haired guy said. He put up his fists, causing the t-shirts long sleeves to slip back and revel strange markings and ruins. "You know what I am."

The shackled boy's second pair of second teeth ground together, while his first pair was barred.

"_**Shadowhunter,**_" the boy spat.

The other boy grinned all over his face. "Got you," he said.

Fionna pushed open the rusty door to the storage room, and stepped inside. For a split second she thought it was deserted. The only source of light came through from high windows. As she neared the window she heard the distant rush of traffic from the high way: car horns blaring and the squealing of brakes. The room smelt like rust and very, _**VERY **_old paint.

_**There's no one in here, **_she realized, looking around bewilderment. It was chilly in the room, despite the August heat outside. Her back was icy with now cold sweat. She took a step forward and ensnared her feet in electrical wire. She bent down to untangle them when she heard voices, a girl's high pitched giggle and a boy answering sharply. When she straitened up, she saw them.

It was if they had appeared in a matter of seconds as if they popped out of the ground. She saw the girl first. She still had the dress on and her damp hair was hanging down like a willow trees branches hanging down. The two boys were with her, the shorter and blond haired one and the tall muscular lanky boy with amber eyes gleaming with red. The Blonde one had his hands in his pockets, having a stare sown with the punk kid, face stretched with terror and pain.

Almost as if it was a reflex, Fionna ducked behind a stone pillar to avoid detection. Fionna watched as the blonde boy was pacing the floor with his arms crossed over his chest. "So" he said. "You haven't told us if there was any more of you _**kind**_" he hissed the word out this time.

_**Your kind? **_Fionna wondered what he was talking about. Maybe she had walked in on some kind of gang war.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," the blue-haired kids tone was pained and surly.

"He means demons" the black haired one said, speaking for the first time looking nonchalant as he leaned against a stone pillar."You do know what a demon is right, don't you?"

The boy tied to the pillar turned away as his mouth was working.

"Demons," drawled the black hair boy said getting of the stone pillar "religiously defined as hell's denizens, the servants of Satin,-"

"That's enough, Marshall," said the girl.

"Marceline is right he doesn't need a pop quiz about demonology"

_**They're actually crazy, **_Fionna thought.

Marshall looked at the boy and smiled. There was something fierce about the gesture, made Fionna think about lions hunting their prey. "Marceline talks to much so dose Finn, do you think I talk too much," the dark haired teen asked.

The blue haired boy didn't respond. His mouth still working. "I could give you information, I know where Valentine is" he said.

Marshall glanced at Finn, who shrugged. "Valentine is in the ground," Marshall said "he is just toying with us."

Marceline tossed her hair "kill it Marshall, he isn't going to tell us anything."

Marshall raised his hand, and Fionna saw in the dim light the blade he was holding, it as oddly translucent, the blade clear as crystal, sharp as glass, and the hilt was embedded with red stones.

The boy gasped "Valentine is back!" He protested, yanking at the bonds that held him. "All the infernal worlds know it- I know it- I can tell you where it is-"

Rage flared suddenly in Marshalls icy eyes. "By the Angel, every time we capture one of you bastards, you claim to know Valentine is, and you- _**can join him there"**_

Fionna couldn't take it anymore. "Stop" she cried.

Marshall whirled, so startled that his knife flew from his hand and clattered onto the concrete floor. Marceline and Finn wore identical expressions of astonishment. The blue haired kid sunk into the chains in relive.

It was Finn who spoke first. "What's this?" he said looking at his companions to see if they knew.

"It's a girl" Marshall said acting cool. He took a step closer to Fionna, examining her. "A mundane girl and she can see us."

"Of Corse I can see you I am not blind," Fionna said.

"Oh but you are," Marshall said "you should scram if you know what's best for you."

"I am not going anywhere," Fionna said, "If I do you will kill him!"

"That's true," Marshall said twirling the knife in his fingers, "What do you care if I kill him or not?"

"B-Because," Fionna sputtered. "You can't going around killing people."

"You're right," said Marshall. "You can't go around killing people." He pointed at the boy with blue hair, whose eyes were slitted. Fionna wondered if he'd fainted. "That's not a person, little girl. It may look like a person and talk like a person and maybe even bleed like a person. But it's a monster."

"Marshall," said Marceline warningly. "That's enough."

"You're crazy," Fionna said, backing away from him. "I've called the police, you know. They'll be here any second."

"She's lying," said Finn, but there was doubt on his face. "Marshall, do you -"

He never got to finish his sentence. At that moment the blue-haired boy, with a high, yowling cry, tore free of the restraints binding him to the pillar, and flung himself on Marshall. They fell to the ground and rolled together, the blue-haired boy tearing at Marshall with hands that glittered as if tipped with metal. Clary backed up, wanting to run, but her feet caught on a loop of wiring and she went down, knocking the breath out of her chest. She could hear Marceline shrieking.

Rolling over, Fionna saw the blue-haired boy sitting on Marshall's chest. Blood gleamed at the tips of his razorlike claws. Marceline and Finn were running toward them, Marceline brandishing her whip in her hand. The blue-haired boy slashed at Marshall with claws extended. Marshall threw an arm up to protect himself, and the claws raked it, splattering blood. The blue-haired boy lunged again - and the whip came down across his back. He shrieked and fell to the side.

Swift as a flick of Marceline's whip, Marshall rolled over. There was a blade gleaming in his hand. He sank the knife into the boy's chest. Blackish liquid exploded around the hilt.

The boy arched off the floor, gurgling and twisting. With a grimace Marshall stood up. His black shirt was blacker now in some places, wet with blood. He looked down at the twitching thing at his feet, reached down, and yanked out the knife. The hilt was slick with black fluid.

The blue-haired boy's eyes flickered open. His eyes, fixed on Marshall, seemed to burn. Between his teeth, he hissed, "So be it. The Forsaken will take you all."

Marshall seemed to snarl. The boy's eyes rolled back. His body began to jerk and twitch as he crumpled, folding in on himself, growing smaller and smaller until he vanished entirely. Fionna scrambled to her feet, kicking free of the electrical wiring. She began to back away. None of them was paying attention to her. Finn had reached Marshall and was holding his arm, pulling at the sleeve, probably trying to get a good look at the wound.

Fionna turned to run - and found her way blocked by Marceline, whip in hand. The gold length of it was stained with dark fluid. She flicked it toward Fionna, and the end wrapped itself around her wrist and jerked tight. Fionna gasped with pain and surprise.

"Stupid little mundane," Marceline said between her teeth. "You could have gotten Marshall killed."

"He's crazy," Clary said, trying to pull her wrist back. The whip bit deeper into her skin. "You're all crazy. What do you think you are vigilante killers? The police -"

"The police aren't usually interested unless you can produce a body," said Marshall. Cradling his arm, he picked his way across the cable-strewn floor toward Fionna. Finn followed behind him, face screwed into a scowl.

Fionna glanced at the spot where the boy had disappeared from, and said nothing. There wasn't even a smear of blood there - nothing to show that the boy had ever existed. "They return to their home dimensions when they die," said Marshall. "In case you were wondering."

"Marshall," Finn hissed. "Be careful."

Marshall drew his arm away. A ghoulish freckling of blood marked his face. He still reminded her of a lion, with his widely spaced, light-colored eyes, and that tawny gold hair. "She can see us, Finn," he said. "She already knows too much."

"So what do you want me to do with her?" Marceline demanded.

"Let her go," Marshall said quietly. Marceline shot him a surprised, almost angry look, but didn't argue. The whip slithered away, freeing Fionna's arm. She rubbed her sore wrist and wondered how the hell she was going to get out of there.

"Maybe we should bring her back with us," Finn said. "I bet Bubba would like to talk to her."

"No way are we bringing her to the Institute," said Marceline. "She's a mundane."

"Or is she?" said Marshall softly. His quiet tone was worse than Marceline's snapping or Finn's anger. "Have you had dealings with demons, little girl? Walked with warlocks, talked with the Night Children? Have you -"

"My name is not 'little girl,'" Fionna interrupted. "And I have no idea what you're talking about."Don't you? said a voice in the back of her head. You saw that boy vanish into thin air. Marshall isn't crazy - you just wish he was. "I don't believe in - in demons, or whatever you -"

"Fionna?" It was Simon's voice. She whirled around. He was standing by the storage room door. One of the burly bouncers who'd been stamping hands at the front door was next to him.

"Are you okay?" He peered at her through the gloom. "Why are you in here by yourself? What happened to the guys - you know, the ones with the knives?"

Fionna stared at him, then looked behind her, where Marshall, Marceline, and Finn stood, Marshall still in his bloody shirt with the knife in his hand. He grinned at her and dropped a half-apologetic, half-mocking shrug. Clearly he wasn't surprised that neither Simon nor the bouncer could see them.

Somehow neither was Fionna. Slowly she turned back to Simon, knowing how she must look to him, standing alone in a damp storage room, her feet tangled in bright plastic wiring cables.

"I thought they went in here," she said lamely. "But I guess they didn't. I'm sorry." She glanced from Simon, whose expression was changing from worried to embarrassed, to the bouncer, who just looked annoyed. "It was a mistake."

Behind her, Marceline giggled.

"I don't believe it," Simon said stubbornly as Fionna, standing at the curb, tried desperately to hail a cab. Street cleaners had come down Orchard while they were inside the club, and the street was glossed black with oily water.

"I know," she agreed. "You'd think there'd be some cabs. Where is everyone going at midnight on a Sunday?" She turned back to him, shrugging. "You think we'd have better luck on Houston?"

"Not the cabs," Simon said. "You—I don't believe you. I don't believe those guys with the knives just disappeared."

Fionna sighed. "Maybe there weren't any guys with knives, Simon. Maybe I just imagined the whole thing."

"No way." Simon raised his hand over his head, but the oncoming taxis whizzed by him, spraying dirty water. "I saw your face when I came into that storage room. You looked seriously freaked out, like you'd seen a ghost."

Fionna thought of Marshall with his lion-cat eyes. She glanced down at her wrist, braceleted by a thin red line where Isabelle's whip had curled. No, not a ghost, she thought. Something even weirder than that.

"It was just a mistake," she said wearily. She wondered why she wasn't telling him the truth. Except, of course, that he'd think she was crazy. And there was something about what had happened—something about the black blood bubbling up around Marshall's knife, something about his voice when he'd said have you talked with the Night Children? That she wanted to keep to herself.

"Well, it was a hell of an embarrassing mistake," Simon said. He glanced back at the club, where a thin line still snaked out the door and halfway down the block. "I doubt they'll ever let us back into Pandemonium."

"What do you care? You hate Pandemonium." Fionna raised her hand again as a yellow shape sped toward them through the fog. This time, though, the taxi screeched to a halt at their corner, the driver laying into his horn as if he needed to get their attention.

"Finally we get lucky." Simon yanked the taxi door open and slid onto the plastic-covered backseat. Fionna followed, inhaling the familiar New York cab smell of old cigarette smoke, leather, and hair spray. "We're going to Brooklyn," Simon said to the cabbie, and then he turned to Fionna. "Look, you know you can tell me anything, right?"

Fionna hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Sure, Simon," she said. "I know I can."

She slammed the cab door shut behind her, and the taxi took off into the night.


	3. Chapter 2: secrets and lies

**I am sorry I thought I told you it was like the city of bones, well any way yeah it is. But yeah thanks for reading.**

Dark Decent

Chapter two secrets and lies

The dark prince sat astride his black steed, his sable cape flowing behind him. A golden circlet bound his blond locks, his handsome face was cold with the rage of battle, and…

"And his arm looked like an eggplant," Fionna muttered to herself in exasperation. The drawing just wasn't working. With a sigh she tore yet another sheet from her sketchpad, crumpled it up, and tossed it against the orange wall of her bedroom. Already the floor was littered with discarded balls of paper, a sure sign that her creative juices weren't flowing the way she'd hoped. She wished for the thousandth time that she could be a bit more like her mother. Everything Kate Martins drew, painted, or sketched was beautiful, and seemingly effortless.

Fionna pulled her headphones out—cutting off Stepping Razor in midsong—and rubbed her aching temples. It was only then that she became aware that the loud, piercing sound of a ringing telephone was echoing through the apartment. Tossing the sketchpad onto the bed, she jumped to her feet and ran into the living room, where the retro-red phone sat on a table near the front door.

"Is this Fionna Martins?" The voice on the other end of the phone sounded familiar, though not immediately identifiable.

Fionna twirled the phone cord nervously around her finger. "Yeees?"

"Hi, I'm one of the knife-carrying hooligans you met last night in Pandemonium? I'm afraid I made a bad impression and was hoping you'd give me a chance to make it up to—"

"SIMON!" Fionna held the phone away from her ear as he cracked up laughing. "That is so not funny!"

"Sure it is. You just don't see the humor."

"Jerk." Fionna sighed, leaning up against the wall. "You wouldn't be laughing if you'd been here when I got home last night."

"Why not?"

"My mom. She wasn't happy that we were late. She freaked out. It was messy."

"What? It's not our fault there was traffic!" Simon protested. He was the youngest of three children and had a finely honed sense of familial injustice.

"Yeah, well, she doesn't see it that way. I disappointed her, I let her down, I made her worry, blah blah blah. I am the bane of her existence," Fionna said, mimicking her mother's precise phrasing with only a slight twinge of guilt.

"So, are you grounded?" Simon asked, a little too loudly. Fionna could hear a low rumble of voices behind him; people talking over each other.

"I don't know yet," she said. "My mom went out this morning with Jake, and they're not back yet. Where are you, anyway? Eric's?"

"Yeah. We just finished up practice." A cymbal clashed behind Simon. Fionna winced. "Eric's doing a poetry reading over at Java Jones tonight," Simon went on, naming a coffee shop around the corner from Fionna's that sometimes had live music at night. "The whole band's going to go to show their support. Want to come?"

"Yeah, all right." Fionna paused, tugging on the phone cord anxiously. "Wait, no."

"Shut up, guys, will you?" Simon yelled, the faintness of his voice making Fionna suspect that he was holding the phone away from his mouth. He was back a second later, sounding troubled. "Was that a yes or a no?"

"I don't know." Fionna bit her lip. "My mom's still mad at me about last night. I'm not sure I want to piss her off by asking for any favors. If I'm going to get in trouble, I don't want it to be on account of Eric's lousy poetry."

"Come on, it's not so bad," Simon said. Eric was his next-door neighbor, and the two had known each other most of their lives. They weren't close the way Simon and Fionna were, but they had formed a rock band together at the start of sophomore year, along with Eric's friends Matt and Kirk. They practiced together faithfully in Eric's parents' garage every week. "Besides, it's not a favor," Simon added, "it's a poetry slam around the block from your house. It's not like I'm inviting you to some orgy in Hoboken. Your mom can come along if she wants."

"ORGY IN HOBOKEN!" Fionna heard someone, probably Eric, yell. Another cymbal crashed. She imagined her mother listening to Eric read his poetry, and she shuddered inwardly.

"I don't know. If all of you show up here, I think she'll freak."

"Then I'll come alone. I'll pick you up and we can walk over there together, meet the rest of them there. Your mom won't mind. She loves me."

Fionna had to laugh. "Sign of her questionable taste, if you ask me."

"Nobody did." Simon clicked off, amid shouts from his bandmates.

Fionna hung up the phone and glanced around the living room. Evidence of her mother's artistic tendencies was everywhere, from the handmade velvet throw pillows piled on the dark red sofa to the walls hung with Kate's paintings, carefully framed—landscapes, mostly: the winding streets of downtown Manhattan lit with golden light; scenes of Prospect Park in winter, the gray ponds edged with lacelike films of white ice.

On the mantel over the fireplace was a framed photo of Fionna's father. A thoughtful-looking fair man in military dress, his eyes bore the telltale traces of laugh lines at the corners. He'd been a decorated soldier serving overseas. Kate had some of his medals in a small box by her bed. Not that the medals had done anyone any good when Jonathan Clark had crashed his car into a tree just outside Albany and died before his daughter was even born.

Kate had gone back to using her maiden name after he died. She never talked about Fionna's father, but she kept the box engraved with his initials, M. C, next to her bed. Along with the medals were one or two photos, a wedding ring, and a single lock of blond hair. Sometimes Jocelyn took the box out and opened it and held the lock of hair very gently in her hands before putting it back and carefully locking the box up again.

The sound of the key turning in the front door roused Fionna out of her reverie. Hastily she threw herself down on the couch and tried to look as if she were immersed in one of the paperbacks her mother had left stacked on the end table. Kate recognized reading as a sacred pastime and usually wouldn't interrupt Fionna in the middle of a book Jake, his arms full of what looked like big square pieces of pasteboard. When he set them down, Fionna saw that they were cardboard boxes, folded flat. He straightened up and turned to her with a smile.

"Hey, Un—hey, Jake," she said. He'd asked her to stop calling him Uncle Jake about a year ago, claiming that it made him feel old, and anyway reminded him of Uncle Tom's Cabin. Besides, he'd reminded her gently, he wasn't really her uncle, just a close friend of her mother's who'd known her all her life. "Where's Mom?"

"Parking the truck," he said, straightening his lanky frame with a groan. He was dressed in his usual uniform: old jeans, a flannel shirt, and a bent pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that sat askew on the bridge of his nose. "Remind me again why this building has no service elevator?"

"Because it's old, and has character," Fionna said immediately. Jake grinned. "What are the boxes for?" she asked.

His grin vanished. "Your mother wanted to pack up some things," he said, avoiding her gaze.

"What things?" Fionna asked.

He gave an airy wave. "Extra stuff lying around the house. Getting in the way. You know she never throws anything out. So what are you up to? Studying?" He plucked the book out of her hand and read out loud: "The world still teems with those motley beings whom a more sober philosophy has discarded. Fairies and goblins, ghosts and demons, still hover about—" He lowered the book and looked at her over his glasses. "Is this for school?"

"The Golden Bough? No. School's not for a few weeks." Fionna took the book back from him. "It's my mom's."

"I had a feeling."

She dropped it back on the table. "Jake?"

"Uh-huh?" The book already forgotten, he was rummaging in the tool kit next to the hearth. "Ah, here it is." He pulled out an orange plastic tape gun and gazed at it with deep satisfaction.

"What would you do if you saw something nobody else could see?"

The tape gun fell out of Jake's hand, and hit the tiled hearth. He knelt to pick it up, not looking at her. "You mean if I were the only witness to a crime, that sort of thing?"

"No. I mean, if there were other people around, but you were the only one who could see something. As if it were invisible to everyone but you."

He hesitated, still kneeling, the dented tape gun gripped in his hand.

"I know it sounds crazy," Fionna ventured nervously, "but…"

He turned around. His eyes, very blue behind the glasses, rested on her with a look of firm affection. "Fionna, you're an artist, like your mother. That means you see the world in ways that other people don't. It's your gift, to see the beauty and the horror in ordinary things. It doesn't make you crazy—just different. There's nothing wrong with being different."

Fionna pulled her legs up, and rested her chin on her knees. In her mind's eye she saw the storage room, Marceline's gold whip, the blue-haired boy convulsing in his death spasms, and Marshall's tawny eyes. Beauty and horror. She said, "If my dad had lived, do you think he'd have been an artist too?"

Jake looked taken aback. Before he could answer her, the door swung open and Fionna's mother stalked into the room, her boot heels clacking on the polished wooden floor. She handed Jake a set of jingling car keys and turned to look at her daughter.

Kate Martins was a slim, compact woman, her hair a few shades darker than Fionna's and twice as short. At the moment it was twisted up in a dark brown knot, stuck through with a graphite pen to hold it in place. She wore paint-spattered overalls over a lavender T-shirt, and brown hiking boots whose soles were caked with oil paint.

People always told Fionna that she looked like her mother, but she couldn't see it herself. The only thing that was similar about them was their figures: They were both slender, with small chests and wide hips. She knew she wasn't beautiful like her mother was. To be beautiful you had to be willowy and tall. When you were as short as Fionna was, just over five feet, you were cute. Not pretty or beautiful, but cute. Throw in Blonde hair, and she was a Raggedy Ann to her mother's Barbie doll.

Kate even had a graceful way of walking that made people turn their heads to watch her go by. Fionna, by contrast, was always tripping over her feet. The only time people turned to watch her go by was when she hurtled past them as she fell downstairs.

"Thanks for bringing the boxes up," Fionna's mother said to Jake, and smiled at him. He didn't return the smile. Fionna stomach did an uneasy flip. Clearly there was something going on. "Sorry it took me so long to find a space. There must be a million people at the park today—"

"Mom?" Fionna interrupted. "What are the boxes for?"

Kate bit her lip. Jake flicked his eyes toward Fionna, mutely urging Kate forward. With a nervous twitch of her wrist, Kate pushed a dangling lock of hair behind her ear and went to join her daughter on the couch.

Up close Fionna could see how tired her mother looked. There were dark half-moons under her eyes, and her lids were pearly with sleeplessness.

"Is this about last night?" Fionna asked.

"No," her mother said quickly, and then hesitated. "Maybe a little. You shouldn't have done what you did last night. You know better."

"And I already apologized. What is this about? If you're grounding me, get it over with."

"I'm not," said her mother, "grounding you." Her voice was as taut as a wire. She glanced at Jake, who shook his head.

"Just tell her, Kate," he said.

"Could you not talk about me like I'm not here?" Fionna said angrily. "And what do you mean, tell me? Tell me what?"

Kate expelled a sigh. "We're going on vacation."

Jake's expression went blank, like a canvas wiped clean of paint.

Fionna shook her head. "That's what this is about? You're going on vacation?" She sank back against the cushions. "I don't get it. Why the big production?"

"I don't think you understand. I meant we're all going on vacation. The three of us—you, me, and Jake. We're going to the farmhouse."

"Oh." Fionna glanced at Jake, but he had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring out the window, his jaw pulled tight. She wondered what was upsetting him. He loved the old farmhouse in upstate New York—he'd bought and restored it himself ten years before, and he went there whenever he could. "For how long?"

"For the rest of the summer," said Kate. "I brought the boxes in case you want to pack up any books, painting supplies—"

"For the rest of the summer?" Fionna sat upright with indignation. "I can't do that, Mom. I have plans—Simon and I were going to have a back-to-school party, and I've got a bunch of meetings with my art group, and ten more classes at Tisch—"

"I'm sorry about Tisch. But the other things can be canceled. Simon will understand, and so will your art group."

Fionna heard the implacability in her mother's tone and realized she was serious. "But I paid for those art classes! I saved up all year! You promised." She whirled, turning to Jake. "Tell her! Tell her it isn't fair!"

Jake didn't look away from the window, though a muscle jumped in his cheek. "She's your mother. It's her decision to make."

"I don't get it." Fionna turned back to her mother. "Why?"

"I have to get away, Fionna," Kate said, the corners of her mouth trembling. "I need the peace, the quiet, to paint. And money is tight right now—"

"So sell some more of Dad's stocks," Fionna said angrily. "That's what you usually do, isn't it?"

Fionna recoiled. "That's hardly fair."

"Look, go if you want to go. I don't care. I'll stay here without you. I can work; I can get a job at Starbucks or something. Simon said they're always hiring. I'm old enough to take care of myself—"

"No!" The sharpness in Kate's voice made Fionna jump. "I'll pay you back for the art classes, Fionna . But you are coming with us. It isn't optional. You're too young to stay here on your own. Something could happen."

"Like what? What could happen?" Fionna demanded.

There was a crash. She turned in surprise to find that Jake had knocked over one of the framed pictures leaning against the wall. Looking distinctly upset, he set it back. When he straightened, his mouth was set in a grim line. "I'm leaving."

Fionna bit her lip. "Wait." She hurried after him into the entryway, catching up just as he seized the doorknob. Twisting around on the sofa, Fionna could just overhear her mother's urgent whisper."… Bane," Kate was saying. "I've been calling him and calling him for the past three weeks. His voice mail says he's in Tanzania. What am I supposed to do?"

"Kathrin." Luke shook his head. "You can't keep going to him forever."

"But Fionna—"

"Isn't Mark," Jake hissed. "You've never been the same since it happened, but Fionna isn't Mark."

What does my father have to do with this? Fionna thought, bewildered.

"I can't just keep her at home, not let her go out. She won't put up with it."

"Of course she won't!" Jake sounded really angry. "She's not a pet, she's a teenager. Almost an adult."

"If we were out of the city…"

"Talk to her, Kathrin." Jake's voice was firm. "I mean it." He reached for the doorknob.

The door flew open. Kate (Kate and Kathrin are the same people but Kathrin is her full name and she is cake) gave a little scream.

"Jesus!" Jake exclaimed.

"Actually, it's just me," said Simon. "Although I've been told the resemblance is startling." He waved at Fionna from the doorway. "You ready?"

Kate took her hand away from her mouth. "Simon, were you eavesdropping?"

Simon blinked. "No, I just got here." He looked from Kate pale face to Jake's grim one. "Is something wrong? Should I go?"

"Don't bother," Jake said. "I think we're done here." He pushed past Simon, thudding down the stairs at a rapid pace. Downstairs, the front door slammed shut.

Simon hovered in the doorway, looking uncertain. "I can come back later," he said. "Really. It wouldn't be a problem."

"That might—,"Kate began, but Fionna was already on her feet.

"Forget it, Simon. We're leaving," she said, grabbing her messenger bag from a hook near the door. She slung it over her shoulder, glaring at her mother. "See you later, Mom."

Kate bit her lip. "Fionna, don't you think we should talk about this?"

"We'll have plenty of time to talk while we're on 'vacation,'" Fionna said venomously, and had the satisfaction of seeing her mother flinch. "Don't wait up," she added, and, grabbing Simon's arm, she half-dragged him out the front door.

He dug his heels in, looking apologetically over his shoulder at Fionna's mother. "Bye Mrs. Martins!" he called. "Have a nice evening!"

"Oh, shut up, Simon," Fionna snapped, and slammed the door behind them, cutting off her mother's reply.

"Jesus, woman, don't rip my arm off," Simon protested as Fionna hauled him downstairs after her, her green Skechers slapping against the wooden stairs with every angry step. She glanced up, half-expecting to see her mother glaring down from the landing, but the apartment door stayed shut.

"Sorry," Fionna muttered, letting go of his wrist. She paused at the foot of the stairs, her messenger bag banging against her hip.

Fionna's brownstone, like most in Park Slope, had once been the single residence of a wealthy family. Shades of its former grandeur were still evident in the curving staircase, the chipped marble entryway floor, and the wide single-paned skylight overhead. Now the house was split into separate apartments, and Fionna and her mother shared the three-floor building with a downstairs tenant, an elderly woman who ran a psychic's shop out of her apartment. She hardly ever came out of it, though customer visits were infrequent. A gold plaque fixed to the door proclaimed her to be madame DOROTHEA, SEERESS AND PROPHETESS.

The thick sweet scent of incense spilled from the half-open door into the foyer. Fionna could hear a low murmur of voices.

"Nice to see she's doing a booming business," Simon said. "It's hard to get steady prophet work these days."

"Do you have to be sarcastic about everything?" Fionna snapped.

Simon blinked, clearly taken aback. "I thought you liked it when I was witty and ironic."

Fionna was about to reply when the door to Madame Dorothea's swung fully open and a an stepped out. He was tall, with maple-syrup-colored skin, gold-green eyes like a cat's, and tangled black hair. He grinned at her blindingly, showing sharp white teeth.

A wave of dizziness came over her, the strong sensation that she was going to faint.

Simon glanced at her uneasily. "Are you all right? You look like you're going to pass out."

She blinked at him. "What? No, I'm fine."

He didn't seem to want to let it drop. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

She shook her head. The memory of having seen something teased her, but when she tried to concentrate, it slid away like water. "Nothing. I thought I saw Dorothea's cat, but I guess it was just a trick of the light." Simon stared at her. "I haven't eaten anything since yesterday," she added defensively. "I guess I'm a little out of it."

He slid a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Come on, I'll buy you some food."

"I just can't believe she's being like this," Fionna said for the fourth time, chasing a stray bit of guacamole around her plate with the tip of a nacho. They were at a neighborhood Mexican joint, a hole in the wall called Nacho Mama. "Like grounding me every other week wasn't bad enough. Now I'm going to be exiled for the rest of the summer."

"Well, you know, your mom gets like this sometimes," Simon said. "Like when she breathes in or out." He grinned at her around his veggie burrito.

"Oh, sure, act like it's funny," she said. "You're not the one getting dragged off to the middle of nowhere for God knows how long—"

"Fionna." Simon interrupted her tirade. "I'm not the one you're mad at. Besides, it isn't going to be permanent."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, because I know your mom," Simon said, after a pause. "I mean, you and I have been friends for what, ten years now? I know she gets like this sometimes. She'll think better of it."

Fionna picked a hot pepper off her plate and nibbled the edge meditatively. "Do you, though?" she said. "Know her, I mean? I sometimes wonder if anyone does."

Simon blinked at her. "You lost me there."

Fionna sucked in air to cool her burning mouth. "I mean, she never talks about herself. I don't know anything about her early life, or her family, or much about how she met my dad. She doesn't even have wedding photos. It's like her life started when she had me. That's what she always says when I ask her about it."

"Aw." Simon made a face at her. "That's sweet."

"No, it isn't. It's weird. It's weird that I don't know anything about my grandparents. I mean, I know my dad's parents weren't very nice to her, but could they have been that bad? What kind of people don't want to even meet their granddaughter?"

"Maybe she hates them. Maybe they were abusive or something," Simon suggested. "She does have those scars."

Fionna stared at him. "She has what?"

He swallowed a mouthful of burrito. "Those little thin scars. All over her back and her arms. I have seen your mother in a bathing suit, you know."

"I never noticed any scars," Fionna said decidedly. "I think you're imagining things."

He stared at her, and seemed about to say something when her cell phone, buried in her messenger bag, began an insistent blaring. Fionna fished it out, gazed at the numbers blinking on the screen, and scowled. "It's my mom."

"I could tell from the look on your face. You going to talk to her?"

"Not right now," Fionna said, feeling the familiar bite of guilt in her stomach as the phone stopped ringing and voice mail picked up. "I don't want to fight with her."

"You can always stay at my house," Simon said. "For as long as you want."

"Well, we'll see if she calms down first." Fionna punched the voice mail button on her phone. Her mother's voice sounded tense, but she was clearly trying for lightness: "Baby, I'm sorry if I sprang the vacation plan on you. Come on home and we'll talk." Fionna hung the phone up before the message ended, feeling even guiltier and still angry at the same time. "She wants to talk about it."

"Do you want to talk to her?"

"I don't know." Fionna rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. "Are you still going to the poetry reading?"

"I promised I would."

Fionna stood up, pushing her chair back. "Then I'll go with you. I'll call her when it's over." The strap of her messenger bag slid down her arm. Simon pushed it back up absently, his fingers lingering at the bare skin of her shoulder.

The air outside was spongy with moisture, the humidity frizzing Fionna's hair and sticking Simon's blue T-shirt to his back. "So, what's up with the band?" she asked. "Anything new? There was a lot of yelling in the background when I talked to you earlier."

Simon's face lit up. "Things are great," he said. "Matt says he knows someone who could get us a gig at the Scrap Bar. We're talking about names again too."

"Oh, yeah?" Fionna hid a smile. Simon's band never actually produced any music. Mostly they sat around in Simon's living room, fighting about potential names and band logos. She sometimes wondered if any of them could actually play an instrument. "What's on the table?"

"We're choosing between Sea Vegetable Conspiracy and Rock Solid Panda."

Fionna shook her head. "Those are both terrible."

"Eric suggested Lawn Chair Crisis."

"Maybe Eric should stick to gaming."

"But then we'd have to find a new drummer."

"Oh, is that what Eric does? I thought he just mooched money off you and went around telling girls at school that he was in a band in order to impress them."

"Not at all," Simon said breezily. "Eric has turned over a new leaf. He has a girlfriend. They've been going out for three months."

"Practically married," Fionna said, stepping around a couple pushing a toddler in a stroller: a little girl with yellow plastic clips in her hair who was clutching a pixie doll with gold-streaked sapphire wings. Out of the corner of her eye Fionna thought she saw the wings flutter. She turned her head hastily.

"Which means," Simon continued, "that I am the last member of the band not to have a girlfriend. Which, you know, is the whole point of being in a band. To get girls."

"I thought it was all about the music." A man with a cane cut across her path, heading for Berkeley Street. She glanced away, afraid that if she looked at anyone for too long they would sprout wings, extra arms, or long forked tongues like snakes. "Who cares if you have a girlfriend, anyway?"

"I care," Simon said gloomily. "Pretty soon the only people left without a girlfriend will be me and Wendell the school janitor. And he smells like Windex."

"At least you know he's still available."

Simon glared. "Not funny, Martins."

"There's always Sheila 'The Thong' Barbarino," Fionna suggested. Fionna had sat behind her in math class in ninth grade. Every time Sheila had dropped her pencil—which had been often—Fionna had been treated to the sight of Sheila's underwear riding up above the waistband of her super-low-rise jeans.

"That is who Eric's been dating for the past three months," Simon said. "His advice, meanwhile, was that I ought to just decide which girl in school had the most rockin' bod and ask her out on the first day of classes."

"Eric is a sexist pig," Fionna said, suddenly not wanting to know which girl in school Simon thought had the most rockin' bod. "Maybe you should call the band The Sexist Pigs."

"It has a ring to it." Simon seemed unfazed. Fionna made a face at him, her messenger bag vibrating as her phone blared. She fished it out of the zip pocket. "Is it your mom again?" he asked.

Fionna nodded. She could see her mother in her mind's eye, small and alone in the doorway of their apartment. Guilt unfurled in her chest.

She glanced up at Simon, who was looking at her, his eyes dark with concern. His face was so familiar she could have traced its lines in her sleep. She thought of the lonely weeks that stretched ahead without him, and shoved the phone back into her bag. "Come on," she said. "We're going to be late for the show."


End file.
